


Palimpsest

by Abraxas



Category: Justified
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-16
Updated: 2011-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-24 16:35:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abraxas/pseuds/Abraxas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a LiveJournal prompt. The past is written in layers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Palimpsest

**Author's Note:**

> _**Disclaimer: ** Justified _ain't mine. Sadly. Comments welcome.
> 
>  _ **Author Note:**_ This was written for **norgbelulah** 's excellent _Summer In Harlan_ fic meme at LiveJournal. The prompt for this story was: Boyd/Ava, drive-in
> 
> * * *

The wind catches at the layers of dust on the cracked concrete, sends rust-brown eddies up into the parched air. Metal poles still stand intermittently, most of the paint long since peeled off, leaving behind a rotting patina. Loose wires flop mute and forlorn. It feels hotter here, the heat thickening and shivering over the ground. A patch of desert in the middle of Harlan. The massive screen itself still stands, surprisingly undisturbed by the local devotees to the cult of graffiti, its struts solid and immutable.

There are, of course, clusters of bullet holes. Anything that stands still long enough is considered a legitimate site for target practice.

It's another stretch of land that Black Pike had its eye on and curiosity has brought them - at least, brought Boyd - out here. Ava came for nostalgia. And because it's a quiet Sunday afternoon and a drive anywhere would be nice. And because she'd sooner be with him than without.

Gravel scrunches under her boots, flaking around the weeds that have pushed up through the cracks. Stringy, dried-out things that look like they're searching for moisture in the air. Something glints and she stoops to pick it up, turns it over in her hand, a tarnished half-heart that's come off a charm bracelet and she wonders who has the other half.

She remembers the smell of popcorn and hotdogs from the concession stand, and the smell of leather and the warm inside of a truck on winter nights, or sitting out on the flat-bed with the speaker hooked over the side when it was hot and the sky was deep and velvet blue.

She drops the charm back down, dusts off her fingers, crosses back to where the truck is parked, Boyd leaning against the hood and his eyes turned up to the hills.

He loves the hills, she has learnt, really loves them. He told her once, one night in all seriousness, that there is music in them. She hadn't laughed. She doesn't hear it but he does and that's all that matters.

'It's a damn shame about this place,' she says. 'Drive-ins can be a lot of fun.'

His gaze comes back down to her, levels, then he smiles, a more lazy specimen than is his wont.

'I remember that well.'

'Oh?' Her head tilts. She can think of three or four, more if she really wants to and she doesn't particularly.

His eyes narrow slightly, part amusement and part in defence against the the low slant of the sunlight. 'Do you want a list?'

Her eyebrows go up. 'Just how long is this list?'

'Now, Ava, a gentleman never tells.'

She drives a finger into the middle of his chest. 'You better not be planning on adding to it.'

He catches her hand, raises the knuckles to his lips. 'There are few of any consequence and only one with meaning, Ava.' He uncurls her fingers, drops his love into the palm of her hand.

The heat of the sun at her back is nothing to what radiates from his eyes. She leans against him for a moment. Her fingers run over the wild softness of dark hair bent over her hand. He has inscribed himself over everyone and everything that has ever touched her.

She pulls herself up onto the hood, sitting beside him. 'When I was a kid we used to dare each other to steal stuff from the concession stand when old Eddy wasn't looking.'

'Stealing from a man with one arm? You should be ashamed of yourself.'

'He was mean!' she protests.

'He was a good man,' he says, quiet, after a moment's consideration.

She remembers Eddy: lanky, granite-hewn face like the rock of ages, the empty arm of his shirt always neatly pinned up; and the shirts themselves, pure white against the black waistcoats-

She looks at him, considering.

And that is fatal, sometimes, she thinks: she gets distracted.

Fine lines at the corners of his eyes, deeper now that he squints against the sun. They are hardly old, but they aren't quite young anymore.

She abandons her study and, like him, looks at the silent screen, her chin on his shoulder. From this distance and in the half-shadows of early evening the dirt scudded across the flat silver-white shifts like clouds. Ghost images writ large. She has a notion, however fanciful, that all the stories that have ever been played out there can still be seen, layered under the potential future projections.

'Do you ever wonder-' She stops herself.

'I used to. All of the time. Not anymore.'

It is uncharacteristic, this simplicity.

'Y'know,' she says, 'I think I almost prefer it like this.'

His head turns, his gaze taking in what he needs of her, then his arm goes around her and he holds her close.


End file.
